


Silence, for the Beast is now the Prey

by cosmotronic



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Headpiece, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 11:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: She knows her trouble. She knows her danger, always.But she is a strong woman and she is a wise woman and she is a queen.She is a lion.





	Silence, for the Beast is now the Prey

**Author's Note:**

> A little train of thought piece, a possible snapshot of Cersei's mind at the start of season seven.
> 
> Canon moves on, but take this as a moment suspended.
> 
> Also, first Game of Thrones fic so be gentle.

 

“I don’t think you realise how much trouble we are in.”

She does.

She always has.

She stands and stares at the map, at their past and their present and their future all laid out in bold edges and half-done colour, and contemplates her trouble.

It’s not what he thinks. Men always think in such indelicate ways.

She is a woman. And in this world that is _hard_.

A woman’s intelligence, her cunning, her unique ways of approach mean naught when weighed against the crushing iron of expectation.

To sit and smile and sigh and sew, and to open her legs for man and babe. Blood and spirit weakening with every passing year until they are but pale old ghosts of the bright young women that were.

Some women take comfort in that weakness; there will always be a father, brother, husband to be her strength. To go out into the world in her place and plough a field or bake bread or swing a sword or move pieces on a map and change the world, in tiny ways and enormous ways. Shaping it blunt and rough as only a man can.

While his women sit, meek and dutiful and bent by tradition and celebrating their weakness.

But some women sculpt their place. The strong woman, whatever her station, learns to sit up and take note. Picks up hammer and chisel and builds her walls thick and true, curls fingers around slender knives and poisonous words, always ready, always waiting. She knows her danger, always.

She sees other strong women now and then, flitting between the ranks of prideful men and posturing boys. Their eyes meet and they know, a recognition of the true game they play, behind the feminine facade. But she knows now that none play so well as her.

Take Margaery Tyrell, the whore. Her weapon a smile and her shield a practised purity. She remembers seeing the rose bloom amongst the filth of King’s Landing. Rubbing shoulders with lowborn and beggars, surrounding herself with their pathetic need and drinking their adoration as a thirsting flower sucks up water.

She knows from bitter experience that while the need never lessens, the adoration of the mob is a fickle thing. It would have shifted, in time. But she could not wait, and so she played her boldest hand. And where is that rose now? Ashes to mix with the filth. Fertiliser for her future.

She notices the green fire about her still, in their whispers, in their fear. She saw it in Olenna’s eyes, watched them flicker with fury and die as the shrivelled old thornbush _realised_. A legacy shattered, a name scrubbed out, all that power snatched away in a heartbeat.

The crone was sharp, almost wise, almost worthy. Perhaps thirty years ago the game would have played out differently. But Olenna’s mistake was choosing to rule through the reliance of others, and with a spineless son and a pillow-biting grandson that lace-thin mantle rested easily on old shoulders. Mere memories of fear and the ghost of respect, all too easily blown away with the smoke of ruination.

And as that smoke clears and the last Tyrell flees, to die somewhere bitter and alone and dreaming of revenge, she vows that she herself will never _need_ in that way.

Catelyn Tully was another to note, to watch with a wariness. Not at first; a netted fish. But who grew fangs and thick skin to match her sons and daughters in the end, only too little, too late. Catelyn Stark found a strength, a fierceness and a fury. And it blinded her. Unused to the the rage it dulled her wit and cost her a son and an army and a head.

She understands of course. She was a mother, too. Her own cubs, brought down by wolf and snake and shame before their claws could show and their teeth could bare.

Weakness in each of them. Joffrey bore power and cruelty like a small child given a toy; she knows his mind would have ill suited the subtlety of the game. Tommen, kind and _good_. He would have been a good man, a good husband, a good father one day. But a good man makes for a poor ruler.

Her darling Myrcella, snatched away from her nurture and her protection and her lessons, too easily tempted by snakes.

But they were her _children_ , and their weaknesses hers to encircle and forgive.

She could not save them, for all her strength. And now they are lost.

Catelyn's children are lost too, scattered, dead. Only sweet Sansa, the pet wolf, surely remains. Not so sweet now. Innocence stripped by witness and circumstance, naivety fucked from her by harsh reality and cruel bastards, drawn out and twisted into a strength of many threads. She is almost proud of what the girl has become. Sansa Stark, the ready wolf with a cloak of bitterness and a backbone of ice.

Tales of the sister, wilder, _faceless_. Rumours of her hand behind the massacre of the Freys. Arya Stark, still a child? Perhaps, but she will not underestimate even a child tempered by such suffering. And if the child is still alive, that in itself counts for much these days when counted amongst the heads of wolf and lion and flower and stag and boar and fish and others beyond reckoning.

Jon Snow may tell tall tales of ancient evils and rally his few and frightened followers and name himself King in the North, but he is another boy playing to the rules of old men. His sisters are truer opponents, names and loyalty and teeth sharpened on gritted pain.

But still, she knows, not where her attention must lie.

The dragon. And on this, she must think carefully.

She studies the map at her feet, half painted, stares at the outlines of rivers and mountains and at the fallen houses. Notes each of their losses, their failures, their mistakes resting at the feet of men. And she considers her move.

There is strength, and there is _wisdom_.

The wise woman knows that a man will always _want_.

Her father sent her to the capital when she was barely more than a girl. To marry and be meek and dutiful, Robert’s whore, but also to be her father’s tool. And a tool needs only a rough stone and time to be turned into a weapon. Robert was rough, and his wants were simple. His court was shabby and crude and the game open-handed, a training ground to perfect her skills.

Lions’ blood and lions’ gold gave Robert a crown and a lion at his side, but she did more than her father could ever have. She opened her legs and put lions in line for the throne.

And when Jon Arryn questioned too intently and when Ned Stark came to dig deeper, she was ready and it was almost laughably easy to place her pieces. And the game was long and the game was hard and too often she became locked into moves that cost her dearly, but still she stands with the fate of the world at her feet.

She is a strong woman, she is a wise woman. It is hardship, but also _power_.

Men have strength and names and lands and armies, but always a woman holds their paychest, in her hands or in her breast or between her legs.

Her hands, bringing changes, setting in motion plays that changed the Seven Kingdoms, the world, forever. Her breast, taking axe blows to her hardened heart and knives that glance from her ribs to leave their sharp and shattered slivers, death by a thousand small cuts. And she has used her legs to cage both stag and lion, bears the scars of those encounters.

And she has counted out the golden coins until they are all spent and now she trades on writs of promise and fear to get what _she_ wants.

Oh, she knows her trouble. She does not need her brother to tell her of tokens on a map. Her brother, who took his share like the rest and perhaps she paid him willingly, out of love and devotion and the fear of discovery, but still marked blood red in her ledger.

She looks at him, her brother, her lover.

Golden locks turned muddy, greying. Rough cheeks and metal arm, half a man. Not weak, but somehow lesser. Arm gone to the wolves and courage fled with the dwarf and heart gone to the _beauty of Tarth_ and soul gone to ruin.

She needs his experience and his skill and that undeniable obedience and faith he will receive on the back of his name and his deeds, but she wants him not. Not now.

He is as little to her now as that monstrous, murdering dwarf she also called brother.

As little to her as any man. They are all _her_ tools now, _her_ weapons to wield.

And as she sits there later, Ironborn slime invited before her Iron Throne, throwing boastful words and promises into the air she counts the cost and weighs the iron price against the hollow shell of her heart.

She does not want his ships, his men, a debt. She does not want tools she must hone and weapons she can use only as blunt instruments. She does not want him, but she needs those things.

She does not need him to bring Ellaria Sand’s head on a pike or body in chains. She does not need him to facilitate her revenge for the murder of her daughter. She does not need him, but she wants those things.

So she moves, carefully, needles his ego and shows an opening he can force himself into at his leisure, for his pleasure. Let him fight, let him win battles for her, let him enjoy it. And when he comes to claim his pay, she will neither need nor want him and sea serpent will surely join the ranks of slipping, decaying heads.

Not her. Her head lifts, her crown no burden.

She is strong and wise and she is a _queen_.

It is a lonely thing, but finally she is free. She is unshackled.

The game is almost done. Not won, but within her grasp. It will be harder than ever, but she will stand and face her final opponent more openly than ever.

The Mother of Dragons.

The Unburnt, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains. She has heard the names, knows they are no petty affectations, not sugared treats dropped from the lips of servants. She knows, this one too has _paid_.

She can respect that.

But still the mad king’s daughter knows nothing of the game and in these lands _mad king’s daughter_ carries greater weight than any other name; leverage and a burden both.

Daenerys Targaryen will learn, but must learn quickly. Barely seated at Dragonstone and already so many mistakes made, a hesitancy that costs and she cannot help but wonder if the twisted dwarf that advises the dragon to caution is working to some quiet, personal agenda.

Three dragons; it should be easy to sweep the last pieces from the board. To glory in fire and cleansing fury and build a kingdom of her own design from blackened remains. But on a tight leash the creatures remain, for fear of harming the innocent. For fear of power.

If she had dragons she would not hold them back so. She knows, innocence is a lie. She knows, fear _is_ power.

But for now the danger rests with held breath and they each measure their reach and show little, a flexed claw, a snarled mouth. Two queens set to play their final gambit.

She does not know Daenerys Targaryen. But Cersei Lannister is strong, wise, and her scratch is sharp and her bite ferocious and her eye cunning.

She is a _lion._

A noble lion who stood firm against rabid wolf and prideful stag and thorny rose and slithering snake. Blood on her hands, still dripping. She tastes fire. Ash in her mouth, heat in her heart, embers of the sept in her soul, green flame behind her eye. And soon she moves to spit it out, to scourge the unworthy from her kingdoms.

After all, fire and fury are not the sole domain of dragons.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So... thoughts anyone?
> 
> I have a [tumblr](https://cosmotronic87.tumblr.com/) if people are into that sort of thing :)


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